


For the North

by lmc291



Series: All the Ashes in My Wake [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, Fix-It, Gen, My kingdom for conflict that's not about a dude, Queen in the North, S8E2, Women Being Awesome, bamf Sansa, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmc291/pseuds/lmc291
Summary: Sansa wonders which of them will be first to bring up the exact connection between their families. She may be wary of the dragons, but Sansa is the Stark in Winterfell, descended from kings for eight thousand years. Daenerys might claim to be queen, but they are equals here and Sansa will not bend.Or, how that conversation in "Knight of the Seven Kingdoms" should have gone.





	For the North

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm so damn tired of conflict between women being because of a man.

Sansa dismisses Lord Royce with a nod and waits for Daenerys to take her seat. Daenerys doesn’t sit. This conversation has been long in the making in the weeks since she took up residence at Winterfell.

“I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before. About Ser Jaime.” The Dragon Queen’s gaze is sharp, for all her expression is mild.

“Brienne has been loyal to me-- always. When no one else had my interests at heart, she did. I trust her more than anyone I know.”

Daenerys looks off to the side, carelessly examining the shelf containing Winterfell’s precious books. “I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors.”

Sansa thinks back on the brief time she and Tyrion were married-- thinks about how hard he tried to keep her safe even if all efforts of safety were futile in the Red Keep. “Tyrion is a good man. He was never anything but decent towards me and a smarter man you couldn’t have chosen”

A muscle in Daenerys’ cheek twitches and Sansa knows it’s not from mirth. “I didn’t choose Tyrion to be my hand simply because he was good, and not just because he was smart, either. I asked him to be my hand because he was also ruthless when he had to be.”

Sansa sketches a shallow bow of acknowledgement. Ruthlessness is a skill that she, too, had to learn. There is no room for softness in the world. Softness saves no one.

“He never should have trusted Cersei.” Regret and dismay play briefly around the queen’s eyes before they disappear.

“You never should have either.” No one should trust Cersei. Not ever. In a world where they were only as powerful as the men in their lives, Cersei was vicious about those connections. She craved power more than she cared about Robert’s whoremongering and more than she cared about her vicious, monster son or the plight of the smallfolk she was bound by duty to. Sansa learned that when her father lost his head. And now that she had it in her own right?

“You knew his sister.”

Sansa carefully considers her answer. “How much do you know about my time in King’s Landing?”

Daenerys’ gaze is curious as she finally gestures for Sansa to take her seat. “Tyrion told me a little.”

“Joffrey… it’s hard to describe what he was like to those who never knew him. Until…,” she trails off in memories of Ramsay then shakes her head to clear them away. “Well, for a time I thought he was the as monstrous as a person could be. Even as Queen Regent, Cersei only extended her influence to ensure it wasn’t my face he beat.” She appreciates the sympathy on Daenerys’ face, even if her only purpose in sharing this story is to engender that good will. “ I thought I was free when they broke the betrothal, even if I remained a hostage. She was kind to me, but it was a false kindness. I thought… I thought things were getting better, when she ordered a fine gown made for me. I worked so hard on it-- found so much joy in finally being able to embroider a pretty thing. It wasn’t until it was finished and she was settling a maiden’s cloak over my shoulders that I learned it was a wedding dress. She marched me to the sept that hour.”

She tries not to let herself get too caught up in the memories of her tragic, stupid, naive younger self. Oh, all the things she might have done differently if she knew then what she knows now. “I knew her and still didn’t see that deception. For a time, I suppose we were family. But families are complicated.”

“Ours certainly have been.”

“Sad thing to have in common.” Sansa wonders which of them will be first to bring up the exact connection between their families. She may be wary of the dragons, but Sansa is the Stark in Winterfell, descended from kings for eight thousand years. Daenerys might claim to be queen, but they are equals here and Sansa will not bend.

Daenerys leans forward in her chair. “We have other things in common. We both know what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule. And we’ve both done a damn good job from what I can tell. And yet I can’t help but feel we’re at odds with one another. Why is that?” Daenerys levels a keen eye to examine her. “You don’t like me.”

She wonders if this is what Arya feels like when she faces a target-- adrenaline pumping and vision narrowing in focus. “I find it difficult to trust the woman whose father murdered my grandfather and uncle and whose brother raped my aunt.”

Daenerys blinks as if surprised Sansa would take such a direct approach. “There is bad blood between our families,” she says slowly. “I won’t deny it. But I am not my father.”

“We are none of us our fathers,” Sansa concedes.

Daenerys inclines her head and reaches out to grasp Sansa’s hand where it was resting on the table. “I had hopes we would be friends, you and I. We occupy a lonely place-- women who rule. And--”

Sansa knows she should tread carefully-- that any ill-chosen word can doom them all just as they doomed the Tarlys in the South. She knows this just as she knows that Daenerys wants to bring up her connection with Jon. But Jon is not the point here and she feels a calmness settling about her shoulders as the strength of her forebears surrounds her. This is her duty to the North. “What do you intend to do when this business with the Night’s King is done? When we’ve destroyed Cersei?”

“I intend to take back what is mine.” There’s a low growl in the back of her throat and Sansa thinks she might be tired of explaining her aims.

She leans forward in her seat. “But what will you _do_? When you finally sit on that throne, _what will you do_?” Daenerys opens her mouth to speak, but Sansa does not give her the opportunity to cut in. “Dorne is leaderless. The Riverlands are in ruins. The Lannisters laid waste to House Tyrell and the ravens say most of the grain they were transporting from the Reach to King’s Landing was burned. What will you be queen of if your people are dead and dying of starvation?”

Daenerys’ eyes flash. “I’ve heard stories-- stories of little Sansa Stark who desperately wanted nothing more than to be queen. Is this it then? You would sit on the Iron Throne yourself? You who would have been the good-daughter of the Usurper? You would turn usurper as well?” She half rises in her fury.

Sansa does not rise to the bait. “Your grace, I will never set foot in the South again for as long as I live. My place is at Winterfell.”

Daenerys sits back down, nostrils still flaring in anger. “Winterfell. Yes, you’re quite loved here, aren’t you?”

Sansa knows that her aha of discovery doesn’t show on her face. “My mother was a Tully--”

“I don’t want a history lesson!”

“--and she took great care that we knew her words.” Sansa calmly keeps speaking. “Do you know the words of House Tully, your grace?”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “I suppose you’re about to tell me.”

“Family. Duty. Honor.” She carefully enunciates the words, hearing the echo of her mother’s voice behind them. “My family is my priority, and my duty is to them and to the people of the North. My honor will be satisfied by nothing less.”

Daenerys finally seems mollified at what she reads as an explicit denial of desire for the Iron Throne. “They are good words. It’s obvious how you exemplify them.”

“And the words for House Stark?”

Daenerys allows a small smile, clearly knowing the answer from Jon. “Winter is Coming.”

Sansa makes a small noise at the back of her throat, too short to be a laugh but with too much humor to be a scoff. “Winter is here, and winter came for House Stark when we went South. No, House Stark has new words. The North Remembers.” She pauses to let the weight of her words sink in, knowing full well the Tyrion and Varys informed her of all that befell her family.

When Daenerys’ eyes widen in recognition of the implications of those new words, Sansa asks, “When this is over, what about the North? It was taken from us and we took it back and when we did, we vowed to never bow to anyone ever again.” She leans forward to look Daenerys in the eye. “What about the North?”

Daenerys reels back at the suggestion of independence, but they are interrupted before she can answer.

“Lady Stark… and your grace. You’re needed in the Great Hall.”

Sansa looks up at the messenger. “Yes, thank you. We’ll be right there.”

Daenerys exits the room brusquely and Sansa follows at a sedate pace, allowing a small smile to grace her lips when she knows the other woman won’t see it.

For Winterfell. For the North.


End file.
